


this is pouring rain, this is paralyzed

by dickpuncher420



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Zukka Week, drowsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickpuncher420/pseuds/dickpuncher420
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zuko wakes up alone, curled around a pillow that is not his own, and desperately cold.</p>
<p> <i>For day 2 of Zukka Week: Drowsy</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	this is pouring rain, this is paralyzed

**Author's Note:**

> As it turns out, doors are NOT a thing in the Fire Nation palace (I checked the comics, and they only have empty doorways wtf) but I have included some here for dramatic purposes.

“Get out.”

As he spits out the words, Zuko tries to ignore the sick feeling rising in his chest and instead focus on the anger bubbling beneath his skin, threatening to bleed out of his fingers as hot blazes of fire. He clenches his fists to stifle the urge to burn something, _anything_ , and levels his glare at Sokka. His face is illuminated only by the moonlight spilling in through the open balcony doors, and in the dimness he looks furious.

Sokka steps towards him, eyes blazing and mouth twisted into a ragged snarl. “No, Zuko, you don’t get to fucking—“

“Sokka. I said get. Out.” A lick of flame spills off of Zuko’s tongue and throws sharp, jagged shadows over Sokka’s face. In that brief second, Sokka’s face softens into an expression that looks almost like hurt, but it’s gone before Zuko can even begin to feel a bit of remorse.

“Fine,” Sokka says, his voice harsh. He backs away slowly, his gaze locked on Zuko, eyes flashing with resentment. After a couple of steps, he spins on his heel and stalks towards the door. Zuko watches him go.

Sokka pulls open the door and stops. He turns his head, just slightly, so that Zuko can hear him, and says quietly, venomously, “Fuck you, Zuko.”

Then he steps out and slams the door shut. The sound echoes around his chambers and rings in his ears, deafening. Vaguely, distantly, Zuko worries that it will wake up all the other inhabitants of the palace. It is the middle of the night, after all.

Zuko stands frozen, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, his stare fixed on the door. Gradually, his pulse begins to slow, and the tension leaves his muscles. He suddenly lets out a shuddering, shaky breath. Running his trembling fingers through his hair and pulling it out of the already-skewed topknot, Zuko tries to swallow past the growing lump in his throat.

He squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his hair between his fingers to try to still them. His breath comes in fits and starts, and there’s a growing heat blooming behind his eyelids. He feels like he’s suffocating. He can’t stop shaking.

_No._ He bites down on his bottom lip, hard. _He won’t_. He forces himself to breathe, pull in large, gulping breaths of air until he’s sure that he won’t cry. Then he walks over to the balcony and pulls the doors shut so that he’s surrounded by darkness.

Zuko falls into bed without undressing and pulls the blankets up over his head. He buries his head into the pillow and stiffens. It smells like Sokka—pine trees and spilled ink and the sharp tang of the frozen sea. He pushes it away with a violent shove and settles himself as far away as possible from the other side—Sokka’s side—of the bed.

That night, he dreams of his mother leaving.

Zuko wakes up alone, curled around a pillow that is not his own, and desperately cold. The covers lie crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t remember throwing them off.

He heaves himself out of bed and makes his way over to his bathroom. Halfway there, he realizes that he’s still clutching Sokka’s pillow, and drops it promptly to the ground.

In front of the mirror, Zuko assesses his appearance. His hair is a mess, his eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep purple crescents underneath his good eye. He swipes a hand over his scar and groans: he looks like shit. Hopefully his servants will be able to clean him up—he doesn’t want to answer his uncle’s prying questions or concerned glances.

His day passes in a haze of exhaustion and paperwork. Thankfully, he’s left alone most of the day, so there is nobody to comment on his wrecked appearance. Occasionally, Iroh steps into Zuko’s study to bring him tea, but he doesn’t say anything besides to point out how nice the weather is and cautiously extend an offer of a game of Pai Sho, which Zuko declines.

He doesn’t see Sokka.

At the end of the day, he walks in to find his chambers completely spotless: no remnants of his fight with Sokka the previous night. No shattered vases, no scattered scrolls, no displaced furniture. His bed has been remade and the doors to the balcony have been thrown open to let in the light of the setting sun. The pillow that he left on the ground is gone.

Zuko sleeps fitfully, curled up in his blankets on the far side of the bed. His dreams are filled with memories of deafening flames and searing crowds and a merciless face cloaked in shadow. He smells burning.

He comes awake with a start, throat raw and face wet, and his guards stumble in, alarmed and disoriented. They only leave after multiple reassurances on his part that he’s not in any immediate danger.

The nightmares only deteriorate from there.

Each night he wakes in a cold sweat, limbs tangled in the sheets, his mind flashing with jagged flashes of light and spiralling tongues of flame. He reaches out, fingers grasping, searching for warmth and comfort, his face twisted with fear—but the other side of the bed is always empty.

Iroh is worried about him, he can tell. Through the exhaustion clouding his mind, Zuko can just barely recognize the signs: the note of concern in his voice when he greets Zuko in the mornings, his questioning gaze when he brings Zuko tea, no doubt taking in his wretched appearance, the way his hand lingers on Zuko’s shoulder when he bids him good night. Zuko wants to tell him that he’s fine and to stop worrying about him, but he also doesn’t want to lie to his uncle. So he keeps his mouth shut, and tells himself that he can handle it.

And he does. For a little while, at least.

Until Azula comes to him.

In his dream, she’s darker, fiercer, wilder than he remembers. Her smile is stretched too wide, her eyes are too bright, and she comes at him with a terrifying precision that was missing in their real fight.

Her flames roar bright around him, bathing the entire scene in an eerie blue glow, and he flinches away from their blazing, searing heat. She laughs—a sharp, piercing cackle—and Zuko smells the stench of singed hair. He tastes ash on his tongue as he retaliates with towering pillars of brilliant orange. Everything is more vivid, more stark than he remembers.

Azula dances around his blows, her eyes and fingertips alight with fire, sparking with lightning. This time, she doesn’t need prompting, no taunts to egg her on, and he doesn’t need to dive to catch her lightning, because she aims it straight at him. And he can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think as it courses towards him, snaking through the air like a living thing, and he can’t even scream as it becomes a part of him, and it burns, burns, _burns_ , just below his heart—

Zuko jolts awake with a crack of thunder, his heart throbbing and the stink of burning flesh still in his nostrils. His clothes are drenched with sweat, and he can taste smoke on his tongue as he coughs, heaves, his breath returning to him in painful draughts of air.

He clenches his fist in the fabric of his robe, above where the scar sits, angry and red. He tries to breathe, to force down the sickness climbing in his throat and slow down the mad hammer of his pulse, but a sudden flash of lightning outside sends him spiralling down into a panic, and the only thing he can think is that he doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

So Zuko climbs out of bed, head spinning, and steps into his slippers. He hesitates at the door, wavering, but the crack of thunder that echoes through the air decides for him. He yanks open the door and shoots outside, ignoring the surprised shouts of his guards as he darts down the corridor with nothing more than a, “Leave me alone!” cast over his shoulder.

The rain spills in between the pillars, soaking his clothes, and he flinches at every bright flash that splits the sky, recoils at every clap of thunder, but he pushes onward, determination and desperation driving him forward.

Pulse rattling, breath shuddering, Zuko finally comes to a stop in front of a dark wooden door. He slumps, suddenly drained, against the wall.

He leans his head against the doorframe and listens, straining to hear anything above the deafening patter of the rain. He has no idea if Sokka is awake, and he’s debating leaving and returning to his chambers to wait out the storm— _this was a stupid, stupid idea_ —but there’s a sudden, rumbling crack of thunder and Zuko jumps, his heart racing.

His hand is trembling as he knocks lightly against the wood. And then he waits, his heart in his throat, arms wrapped around his abdomen. He sets his jaw and blinks the water out of his eyes, staring pleadingly at the door…

Nothing.

Zuko’s chest heaves as he tries to contain a broken sob. He curls in on himself, shaking pitifully. _One more time_ , he tells himself, and he raises a shaking fist and raps against the door—

It opens almost immediately, and Sokka is standing there, hair askew, worry etched into every line on his face. He squints out into the darkness, “Zuko?”

“Sokka,” Zuko tries to say, but he’s cut off by an abrupt flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, and he chokes on his words, his entire body tensing.

Sokka immediately reaches out and grabs Zuko by the arms, pulling him in through the doorway. Zuko suddenly finds himself crushed against Sokka’s chest, and he hesitates for only a second before wrapping his arms around Sokka’s back. He clutches at the fabric and buries his face into Sokka’s shoulder, trembling. There’s the sound of the door swinging shut and the rain becomes nothing more than a muted noise fading into the background.

“Spirits, Zuko, are you okay?” Sokka says, and Zuko can hear the fear in his voice, can feel his distress in the way he squeezes Zuko against him.

Zuko just closes his eyes and presses his nose into the crook of Sokka’s neck, letting out a long, shuddering breath. His senses fill with warmth and the familiar smell of Sokka. He feels him press a kiss to the side of his head, and then Sokka’s fingers are there, threading through his hair, soft and comforting.

They stay wrapped up in each other, listening to the sound of their breathing and the quiet thud of their heartbeats, with the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance.

After what feels like forever, Zuko finally pulls back to look up at Sokka.

Sokka opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get out a single word, Zuko’s lips are there. Sokka’s mouth is soft and warm against his own, and Zuko can feel his own lips trembling. He pulls his arm out from behind Sokka, and lifts his hand to cup the side of Sokka’s face. He tries to pour everything he can into the kiss: his apology, his fear, his loneliness, his love.

He pulls away and then presses his forehead against Sokka’s. “Sokka, I—I’m sorry,” he starts.

“No, no, hey, Zuko. Shh,” Sokka says. He covers Zuko’s hand with his own and then holds it between them, his thumb rubbing over Zuko’s knuckles. The callouses on Sokka’s palm are rough against his skin.

Zuko swallows. “No, I meant... I meant about the other night.”

“I know,” Sokka says.

“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I overreacted and I—I shouldn’t have told you to leave. I’m sorry. ” He can feel his throat closing up.

“No, Zuko, it was my fault. I brought it up, and I wouldn’t let it go, and I—“ There’s a hitch in Sokka’s breath. “I’m sorry about what I said. When I left.” His thumb comes up and brushes Zuko’s cheek. Zuko blinks—he didn’t realize he’d been crying.

“Fuck, Zuko, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so worried about you—and then there was the storm and I know you hate lightning and I was so scared, and _fuck_ , I’m sorry, Zuko. I’m so sorry. ” And then Sokka crushes his lips to Zuko’s.

It’s desperate and needy and wet with their tears, and Zuko grips Sokka’s shirt so hard that he thinks he might tear it, and Sokka’s hands are on his face and in his hair and on his jaw, hard and soft, indecisive and erratic. Zuko feels engulfed, his pulse hammering in his ears, and panting sloppily into Sokka’s mouth. He can taste the salty tang of tears.

When they pull away, Sokka gives him a shaky, heartfelt smile, his lips glistening and eyes wet, and runs his hand down Zuko’s spine. Zuko shivers.

“Shit,” Sokka yelps. “Zuko, you’re soaked. Fuck, I—come on, let’s get you dried off.”

Zuko doesn’t object as Sokka pulls him over to stand in front of the fireplace. He moves to untie the sash at his waist, but Sokka stops him with a gentle hand.

“I got this, okay?” he whispers, and presses a kiss against the corner of Zuko’s mouth. Zuko nods and closes his eyes, relaxing into the feeling of Sokka’s deft fingers brushing his waist.

The sash falls away, and Sokka’s hands slide under his tunic, warm against his skin. He pushes the fabric off of Zuko’s shoulders, and it falls to the ground with a muffled _whump_ , the sound mixing with the quiet crackle of the flames and the muted drone of the rain. Sokka’s hands are on Zuko’s shoulders, and Zuko’s breath catches as they glide down until they’re lightly gripping his waist.

He starts when he feels Sokka’s breath, damp and hot on his collarbone, followed by the soft press of his lips. Sokka’s hair tickles at his chin.

His lips mark a gentle path down Zuko’s chest, and Zuko tenses, almost imperceptibly, when he feels the puff of Sokka’s breath on his lightning scar. There’s a pause, and then Sokka’s fingers tangle with his at his side. Sokka squeezes his fingers, a silent reassurance.

Zuko lets out a long, stuttering breath the moment he feels Sokka’s lips against the scar. Sokka kisses it once, twice, gentle and reverent, and then his hands pull away from Zuko’s skin to tug at the band of his trousers.

Sokka drags the fabric down his legs, brushing his hands over Zuko’s skin as he goes, and Zuko shudders. He toes off his wet slippers and then steps out of the trousers, and he’s left wearing nothing but his underwear.

“You good?” Sokka asks, and Zuko opens his eyes. Sokka’s face is very close, the light from the fire at Zuko’s back flickering across the planes of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the soft slope of his nose. He looks beautiful, Zuko thinks, and a warm feeling rises in his chest. He wants to kiss him. So he does.

He feels Sokka smile into the kiss, and he wraps his arms around Zuko’s waist to pull him closer. Sokka’s clothes are wet when Zuko presses against him, and he jumps.

“Ugh, Sokka, you’re wet,” Zuko says, his mouth twisted up into a rueful grin, and he pushes Sokka away.

“Hey, Jerkbender. This was all you, you know,” Sokka teases. But he releases Zuko and sets about pulling off his wet clothes.

Zuko smiles as he watches Sokka struggle to shuck his clothing as quickly as possible. He snickers when Sokka almost loses his balance as he tries to make his way back to Zuko, his leg catching in his trousers.

“Shut up,” he says, a hint of playful annoyance in his voice, and then he’s kissing Zuko, his hands warm against the sides of his face.

Zuko hums and wraps his arms around Sokka, pressing into the heat of his body. He only barely registers that Sokka is leading them towards his bed as they kiss. They jolt when the backs of Sokka’s knees hit the bed, and Sokka pulls his mouth away from Zuko’s. He whines and Sokka laughs, and warm puff of air against his cheeks, and then Sokka presses a small kiss against the tip of Zuko’s nose. His eyes fly open and he sputters in indignation, but he’s only met with Sokka’s grin.

“Come on,” he says, and he’s shuffling backwards onto the bed, pulling Zuko with him. Zuko climbs on after him and then lies back against the pillows, and Sokka waits until he’s settled to drape himself across Zuko’s chest, his head resting on Zuko’s shoulder and his face pressed into the crook of his neck. Zuko closes his eyes and sighs, a small smile on his lips, as Sokka presses small, fluttering kisses to his neck, their legs tangled together on top of the sheets. He rests his cheek against Sokka’s head and curls towards him, his hands coming around Sokka’s shoulders as Sokka wraps his own arms around Zuko’s waist.

“Are you—is this okay?” Sokka murmurs, his voice muffled against Zuko’s skin.

Zuko takes a breath, and his senses fill with the unmistakeable, overwhelming smell of Sokka: a bright, sprawling forest of pine trees—the subtle, musty scent of ink drying on parchment—a biting ocean wind, accompanied by the frozen spray of the sea. He can feel Sokka’s heartbeat, slow and steady, pulsing rhythmically against his own, a gentle syncopation. Sokka’s fingers are light against the small of his back, warm and flighty, stroking up and down the dip of his spine. His breath is damp and warm at the join of Zuko’s neck. Over the quiet rustle of their breathing, Zuko can hear the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the hush of the rain against the walls of the palace, with the occasional roll of thunder in the distance.

“Yeah.” He smoothes his hands over Sokka’s back, feeling the muscles shift under his fingertips. “I’m okay.”

Sokka smiles into his neck, and Zuko can’t help the small tug at his own lips either.

That night, he dreams of Sokka.


End file.
